


Swarming

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aliens, Deductions and plot taken from Poul Anderson, Gen, Mormors pirates, Spaceships, so probably good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With John's spaceship damaged by space pirates, he needs to hitchike. If he can find the other crew to persuade them (you'll see what I mean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swarming

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and crew are property of Conan Doyle and BBC, and the plot and deductions comes from Poul Anderson (which shouldn’t be a relative of Philip…but one never knows).

In another life, John Watson could have been a scientist, or a soldier, or maybe both, but in the end he’d become neither. He’d started studying medicine, true, and he knew some things (fine, a lot of things), but then his parents had died in an accident, leaving Harry and him no money enough for him to continue his studies. He had to find a job, and quick. He considered seriously the army, true, and he almost enlisted, but in the end the merchants’ guild offered better conditions, and he needed all the money he could to support Harry, who’d never been entirely well.

The life of a trader wandering in the fringes of the galaxy, striking up deals with the oddest civilizations, humanoids or not, seemed to fit John very much and the recompense for a few heroic deeds had been high enough to finally buy a ship – a little one, of course, which his rivals called derogatorily ‘the fish can’ – and start his own business.

Well, it wasn’t a fish can – he didn’t even usually deal in fish, importing alien fishes was a higher end trade than the ones he usually dealth with. Its name was the Beehive, because John planned to be busy all the time, like a good little bee. Actually, the name had been a suggestion by his technician, a lanky creature called Sherlock, who looked human, but half the time John was convinced he was only an alien pretending to be one, because no real human could be that unable to read emotional cues. 

To be honest, John found terribly hard to deny any of Sherlock’s requests or advice, and not simply because it was reasonable (which it was…maybe half the time). Maybe his friend was really an alien, exerting some kind of mind control on the unsuspecting merchant.

Since the both of them like adventure a bit too much, as well as venturing far beyond the safer, more known routes in hope to find some sort of unexpected treasure, their tiny Beehive has seen more of the deep space than most of the bigger trading ships.

Interesting things never failed to happen this far off. Like that time a gift-only civilization had tried to offer John a wife as a present (Sherlock had ruined things that time…and managed to explain commerce to them in the process).

Of course, there’s danger too, but the whole of John’s crew has never shirked from it. They thrive on risks, the higher the stakes the better. There was that time only Molly’s – their medic – quick thinking and unexpectedly resourceful theological debate saved them from being executed as blasphemes from a society that worshipped stones after they played with some, skipping them on the surface of a pretty orange lake, to relieve boredom while they waited for the response to their offer.

Or that time Sherlock was accused of kidnapping a child when he was only trying to be helpful (it all was explained in the end). And that one time when the food they were offered contained hallucinogenic fungi and John almost shot their hosts while believing them to be monsters out of a horror b-movie. (Thank God Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything, no matter how rude that was, and so he stopped John.) 

This time, though, it appeared that they’d lost their bet – and they’d really lose their lives in the process. John had ventured in a far off sector, to commerce with aliens who had some lovely mood-altering jewels.

There, though, the only human presence was that of the Mormors (emphatically not Mormons) an organization of people who recognized no law beyond their own chiefs’ orders and were known to attack and prey on isolated ships. Bloody pirates, and not herouc ones like in these stories Sherlock liked.

The Beehive had been found out by a pirate ship thrice its size, called the Sabertooth, and engaging them in a fight would have been pure suicide. Much to his distaste, John had no choice but try to escape. Try being the operative word here, because they’d still been attacked, their engines damaged, and no matter how much of a genius Sherlock was he couldn’t repair them without the proper instruments and spare parts, which he lacked.

They could either continue fleeing at the maximum speed they could reach, definitely burning out their engines and be left drifting, wandering far off from any civilised planet, or they could go slower and spare the engine, but then it would take them six months to reach the closest inhabited planet and they didn’t have provisions for so long, but no matter, the Mormors would find them back well before then and kill them all.

Sherlock wasn’t a religious man, but he was inclined to pray now. “I’m sorry, John,” he uttered softly, after having explained the situation.

“Hey – not your fault,” the ship’s captain assured gently. “It’s the bastards that shot us.”

Sherlock just hoped that John wouldn’t react to losing all hope to survive by trying to bed all his females crewmates (not that he hadn’t bed most of them already) in an effort to at least die happy. There had to be a solution. There had to be one. (On another note, if they had to die, Sherlock was glad that they’d at least die together.)

Whether it was in answer to Sherlock’s not-exactly prayers, or lucky chance, or fate, a ship appreared suddenly on their radar. Not the Sabertooth, and apparently not another Mormor ship either. An alien one, of a civilisation they didn’t even recognize, but hey, a ship was a ship. They’d make a deal, or beg, or something, and hitch a ride to the nearest planet.

They’d have to abandon the damaged Beehive behind them, and John’s heart broke at the thought of his little home forever drifting as a relict – as garbage – in the depths of space, but if they could save the crew at least they’d live to see another day. Find a different engagement (no more being together, no more spacecraft however little for John Watson), but who cared about that when faced with certain death on the other side. They’d survive like this at least.

Immediately Louise – their communication expert – sent out a message on all wavelengths in this area’s Lingua Franca. They received no response, though. The alien spacecraft remained obstinately silent. Soon it would get past them, and their chance at salvation would pass them at the same time. It was maddening.

The prospect of death can make people do uncharacteristical things. Which is why John decided to board the alien ship – whose name was in an alphabet they couldn’t read – uninvited, despite it being a little like piracy. But the Beehive was prudently armed – John never knew what he’d meet – while the other wasn’t, either because the owners had never gone past their comfort zone or were just very imprudent people, so they found no resistance.

And really, John and his crew would explain politely once they were face to face with the other crew that they weren’t really pirates, or thieves, just hitchhikers. Maybe they should show their towels as proof. Particularly forceful hitchikers, maybe, but bearing no ill will at all. Or, well, they would have explained it to the crew…if they could have found them.

“Just what we need. Overly shy aliens whose ship we can’t maneuver,” Sherlock huffed.

“To be fair, they probably think we’re Mormors. They’re the only humans in this area,” Molly pointed out meekly. “I’d hide too.”

The alien spacecraft clearly was either a scientific mission, it belonged to exotic pets’ traders or was steered by the collectors sent from some zoo. Anyway, the various rooms were occupied each by some specimen of different creatures, each one living in a tailored habitat as far as gravity, atmosphere and micro-climate went, and being automatically cleaned and fed and generally seen to.

Evidently the crew had mixed in with their cargo, and hoped not to be found out. Maybe they thought that finding only the odd animal and judging them uninteresting, the ‘pirates’ would leave. Well, that wasn’t an option. They needed a ride, which meant that they had to discover who the owners of this ship were and persuade them to drive it towards the nearest inhabited planet (which, if John wasn’t wrong, was Lugos). Now, how to manage that?

There were seven different habitats occupied by interesting creatures. They started to examine the creatures more closely.

The first room held parasitic turtles. At least, they looked a lot like turtles – purple ones, with big, strangely bright-looking, almost phosphorescent green eyes – but they ad five long tentacles equipped with spines and suckers that would clearly attach themselves to their victim and suck nutrients out of it.

The second enclosure lodged a single, reddish-furred, lithe looking for his size elephantoid, whose trunk parted in five different, tiny tentacles.

The third harboured rainbow hedgehogs the size of a large dog, with actual opposable thumb on their paws. They spines shined in a myriad of pastel hues. They looked very cute, and well, if they _had been_ pirates, Molly would probably have insisted to steal them (and Sherlock would have seconded her, but don’t spread it).

The fourth habitat had creatures similar to gorillas with a silver fur, who looked very promising as crew – they looked like they could have used some of the commands of the ship.

The fifth area hosted tigers- lookalikes (even the stripes’ colours made it look like the Old Earth animals) but these creatures walked nonchalantly on their own two feet, looking languid though nobody doubted that they’d be able to bite an arm off anyone foolish enough to come close without protection.

The sixth room had a pool with what looked like purple-hued, nimble, six-legged otters. “Just in case they are the crew, I suppose they won’t like if I take the liberty to pet them before even introducing myself,” John sighed.

“And they’re clearly carnivorous, John. Wouldn’t want one to eat one of your fingers. We don’t know how much domesticated, if at all, these creatures are,” Sherlock pointed out.

The last room with someone eligible as crew held creatures similar to the fawns of ancient lore, though they were blind – or at least, they had no immediately evident eyes – and their four arms ended with two sharp-clawed fingers and three short tentacles.

Well, to be honest there were many more habitats, with snakes, spiders, a couple of arthropods and a dozen of exotic birds, but none of these would have been able to use the instruments that made the ship fly, so they were all out of question. Molly started examining the creatures from a medical standpoint. Louise tried to talk at each one in a variety of languages, hoping to see a sign of understanding or intelligence. All for nothing. The crew held their cover.

Until Sherlock came forth, saying, “For the love of God, why are we losing all this time instead of striking a deal with the crew of this ship?”

“Because we don’t know who they are, genius!” Louise bit back sarcastically, annoyed.

“But it’s so obvious!” he protested vibrantly.

“Sherlock? It’s not obvious to any of us, so if you could maybe explain?” John intervened, placatingly.

“Of course, Captain,” the technician agreed, smiling at him. “Even considering the elephantoid is ridiculous, as a single explorer would not be able to fly the ship, take care of all these animals, acquiring them and whatnot.

The hedgehogs live in a planet with three times our gravity, and analysing the instruments before, trying to figure them out, I found a lever for emergency acceleration whose very weight would have made it fall – and consequently activated maximum speed – at a 3G gravity. It was impossible for them to have built this ship.

As for the otters, they breathe hydrogen, but this ship has a rectifier built from copper oxide exposed to the open air, and copper oxid plus hydrogen plus the warmth developed by the engine make sheer copper and water. That’s basic chemistry, my friend. I’m frankly surprised that no one else observed as much. Their instruments would be useless within two hours from leaving, so no otters could be our mystery crew.  And that also rules out the fawns – they breathe hydrogen too.

Regarding the tigers instead, they might have been different in an earlier point of their evolution, but they’re on their way to turning back to quadrupeds, and to be honest, they have too strong jaws now to have much space for a brain in their heads. There’s no way that they’ve built such a complex ship like this,” Sherlock said, all in a breath.

“Then you say it’s the gorillas? It makes sense, of course,” John replied.

“Not exactly,” the technician quipped, grinning.

“You can’t think it’s the turtles. Parasites never amount to anything,” Louise objected angrily.

“And symbiotes? It’s _both,_ John. It was evident if you’d only observe their instruments and what they needed to be used. Some definitely require tentacles – very fine tentacles. But most not. I think the turtles are the actual brain of the pair – have you seen their eyes? They’re intelligent!” Sherlock explained.

“Symbiotes. Brilliant!” the captain breathed, making his friend flush in pleasure. “Come on Loulou, get both species together, tell them no more acting and get them to bloody understand that we mean no harm. We’re not Mormors!”

She looked as if she wanted to object, but couldn’t and set to the task.

“I bet you like these aliens already uh?” John gently teased his favourite (and only) technician. “Having your brain as an entirely independent creature from your body seems your dream come true.”

“Yeah well, my way of thinking might have helped me recognise the situation. As well as the fact that some of our acquaintances I won’t name – cough Anderson cough – actually have a parasitic turtles instead of a functioning brain for a head. It’s a wonder that NSY still hasn’t spontaneously exploded, though I guess he isn’t their only technician,” Sherlock ranted.

John shook his head in fond exasperation. “Will you ever stop hating Anderson?” he queried.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” the technician scolded, annoyed.

The former captain had to admit that he deserved that. To be fair, Anderson hated Sherlock right back with a passion – maybe too much of a passion, he couldn’t help but wonder sometimes. Was Phil perhaps hiding different feelings? Well, Sherlock wasn’t interested in him. The man wasn’t interested in _anyone_ , as far as John was aware – and wasn’t that a sin with someome so gorgeous?

Luckily Sherlock stopped him by losing himself deeper in this trail of thought, by asking, “Anyway, why didn’t you tell Louise to strike a deal with the crew? We could get them animals, if they want. You could get an exclusive with this new civilization. It would certainly help you flourish.”

“And how would I deliver, Sherlock? Need I remind you that we lost the Beehive?” the captain – now without a ship – bit back, sad and angry at his friend’s unusual stupidity.

“Well, what about the insurance money?” Sherlock countered, as if that made any sense.

“Look, I know it was stupid of me with the kind of risks we took, but I simply didn’t have enough money to pay the fees – there’s no insurance,” John revealed, blushing in embarrassment.

“Oh, I know. That’s why _I_ did it,” the tech replied cheerfully.

“You _what_?” John blurted, gaping.

“I never told you about my family did I, John? They’re rather…well off, for lack of a better word. But I didn’t lie to you. I _did_ need a job. In consequence of some…poor choices of mine, all my bank accounts had been frozen by my family, and I wasn’t about to depend on them. But then you gave me a job, and much more, John. You gave me a friend and a home. The Beehive has always felt more like a home to me than my family’s place. Obviously, I didn’t want to lose it.

I talked it over with my brother – it might not seem a huge sacrifice, but I assure you it is – and he consented to let me use my money for the insurance. It’ll give you enough money to buy another ship and even cover the missed revenues from this last trip. Apparently, the fact that the money would go to you was enough to persuade Mycroft that I wasn’t trying to dupe them. I just hope that you’ll let me keep my place in your new ship,” Sherlock explained, ending in an uncharacteristic hesitant note.

“I really can’t,” the captain stated, shaking his head.

“What?” Sherlock whimpered, dismayed.

“Either you become my business partner or I can’t accept all of this, Sherlock. It’s obvious. To be honest, you should become my boss, but I have every intention to work off the debt,” John replied, grinning widely.

“But can I still be your tech? I like it,” his friend queried, hiding a sigh of relief.

“I certainly hope so, since you’re the best I’ve ever known,” the captain assured, smiling.

“Partners. In Beehive the Second. I like that idea,” Sherlock admitted, his tongue caressing the word, and smiling back.

“Then I have our first business deal to strike, _partner_. I’ll be back soon,” John stated, running to update Louise on the situation. He had to have quite a longer discussion with the crew of this ship that he’d thought at first. Life is so odd: he’d thought he’d lost everything today, but in the end, he’d never been happier.      


End file.
